Free Where Wildflowers Bloom: A Novel by Ann Shorey Page A

a cookie while Faith unpacked the picnic leftovers. She allowed his unspoken criticism to follow her around the room until she could no longer bear the silence. “Aren’t you going to light into me?”
    He brushed crumbs from his moustache. “I don’t need to. You know you spoke out of turn.”
    “But we’re going. You agreed.” She flung herself into a chair on the opposite side of the table.
    “No, I said I’d think about it. If memory serves, you had plans to turn a profit at the mercantile. How are sales?”
    Faith bit her lip. He stopped in at least once a day with his manuscript. He had to notice the lack of customers. “The yard goods are very popular with the ladies. I’ve sold fabric and notions for graduation and weddings.”
    “How about plows and cookstoves? It takes a heap of fabric to equal the cost of one stove.” Grandpa bit into another cookie, watching her over the frames of his glasses.
    “Times are hard. No one has cash money for something as costly as a stove.” She shrank under his steady gaze.
    “It’s plowing season. Anyone come in for a new plow?”
    She shook her head.
    “I don’t mean to hector you, but you’ve got to look at facts. If we can’t sell the store, we can’t make the trip.” He pushed himself to his feet and walked around the table, resting his hand on her shoulder. “I told you I’d think about this journey. Why don’t you do the same? We’ll never travel far enough to flee from our sorrows.” He drew her against his chest and kissed the top of her head.
    Faith leaned against him, blinking back tears. “Perhaps not, but maybe we could forget,” she whispered.
    That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Pale moonlight whitewashed the curtains at the window. No matter how she fluffed her pillow or smoothed the sheets, the memory of Rosemary’s teary eyes wouldn’t let her rest. When would she learn to think before she spoke?
    Rolling onto her side, she tugged the blanket higher to block the light. First thing tomorrow she’d go to the Saxons’ house and explain her decision. When Rosemary knew why Faith wanted to leave, she’d understand.

     
    A tap at the door awakened her the next morning. “It’s after eight. Time to stir.”
    After eight? Faith swung her feet to the floor and thrust her arms into the sleeves of her wrapper. “I’m up.” She filled her washbasin from the pitcher atop her bureau and splashed her face with cold water. Of all the days to oversleep. Now she’d have no time to speak privately with Rosemary before opening the mercantile.
    As soon as she and Grandpa finished breakfast, they left for town. Faith matched her stride to his slower one, chafing at the delay. She tossed a wave in Curt’s direction when they passed the livery stable. No time to stop and explain herself to him, either.
    Once inside the store, Faith hurried to open the shades, noticing the display in the front window needed to be dusted. She drew a breath and released it with a huff. She’d ordered the two new sets of iron cookware, spending almost a week’s receipts, certain that ladies would find the burnished gray finish irresistible. Now here the pieces sat gathering dust. There had to be a way to entice patrons through the door. Maybe Rosemary would have a suggestion. Faith would ask her as soon as she arrived.
    The morning ticked past, the minutes marked by the eight-day clock behind the cash drawer. Every time the bell over the door tinkled, Faith turned, expecting to see Rosemary. By twelve, she’d lost hope.
    She locked the back door and carried her dinner pail to the building where Grandpa worked on his memoirs.
    “Noon already?” he asked, placing his pen next to the inkwell. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
    “Yes.” Faith waved her hand in front of her face. “It’s like an oven in here. Why don’t you leave the door open?” She lifted two tin plates from the top of the pail and placed a wedge of cold cheese pie on each of